Linger
by paperskye
Summary: Royai Hundred Themes. thirty-three; a walk. The air is heavy; they've walked this road before.
1. 45 awakening

**45. awakening**

(even in dreams.)

Her hair is silvery in the moonlight, eyes dark. She is ethereal, unreal, like some beautiful creature pulled from a dream.

He grabs her hand as she moves away,  
stay

But she smiles and it's heartbreaking and she reaches over and pushes the hair out of his eyes in a gesture that means so much

_i'm sorry  
i can't_

(_but i want to_)

He grabs her hand and brings her fingers to his lips, for just an instant, then he lets them fall onto twisted sheets.

_i know i know i know.  
i just wish_

The smiles between them are rueful, every breath they take is a carefully strangled sigh.

_i know i know i know._

She gets up, picking her clothes up off the floor. They're scattered everywhere like day old confetti.

He watches her as she gets dressed, trying to memorize the moment, not wanting to forget, wanting to remember the night and the morning and everything, everything -

She pauses by the doorway, glances back. Their eyes lock.  
and they _know_.

_this can never happen again._

She should be gone by now, she should've left ages ago, she should've never stayed in the first place. And still, she lingers in the doorway, not wanting to move, not wanting to leave, not wanting to break the spell.

It's a shaky line, like children dragging chalk across sidewalks. It is something they should not cross, yet that is exactly what they do.

That is the way of renegades.

They want to see how long they can linger, how long they can stay.

How far can they push the boundaries before they're forced to step back?

How long can they keep the impossible, tantalizing dream intact before they have to leap back, over to the safe side of the crooked, crooked line?

They stare at each other for a long time, drowning. Then she dips her head, and she's gone. Just like that.

Like a dream, he thinks.

The kind you cling to, half-concious, half-awake, but still sleeping, not willing, not wanting to let go.

The kind that still fades away, despite everything, leaving you with nothing but a smile and a hazy recollection of something amazing.

The kind that you never want to wake from, for once you do, it's gone, and you know, you know, you know how dreams are, no matter how much you wish, how much you want to, how much you _try_, you can't you can't go back you -

He wakes up.  
The night is dark and the sheets are untangled.  
He wakes up alone.


	2. 8 storelined streets

**08. storelined streets**

(implied spoilers for chapter 16)

He has a ring in his sock drawer.

It's stuffed in the back, way way way in the back, squished against the left corner.

If anyone asks, he'll say he's never seen it before.

If anyone asks, he'll swear it isn't his.

If anyone asks, he'll tell them it's his mother's, his grandmother's, a cousin's, an aunt's, some family heirloom that somehow found its way in his possession.

If anyone asks, he hopes he'll come up with a credible story.

(He hopes she isn't the one who finds it. He doesn't know what she would - no, he. He doesn't know what _he_ would say.)

If anyone asks, he was drunk when he bought it.

It was all Hughes fault, really.

(And he actually _was_ drunk.)

He can still remember the night. Or parts of it, anyways.

(Memories of Hughes are like that. They get mixed up with the dreams, the ones that end in ash and crimson pavement.)

It was snowing. Or hailing. Or maybe it was raining, but he's sure it couldn't have been that, because if it were then he'd remember complaining about it.

... maybe it was raining - a light drizzle, perhaps, not heavy enough to bother him...

Either way. All he remembers is looking up at the sky at some point and thinking that the stars we falling.

Hughes had been babbling about Elysia, again. Even drunk, he remembers being smart enough to tune him out. Come to think of it, being drunk probably made that easier.

He doesn't know how the subject changed, when the conversation turned against him. All he knows is that one second Hughes was gushing over the picture Elysia drew last week and how she would make such an incredible artist when she grew older and would he like to see some pictures she is just soooo cute and talented and didn't he wish he had a daughter as amazing as her - and then he was being ushered into a jewelry store.

Before he knew it he was standing in front of the engagement rings.

Really, knowing Hughes, he had probably planned this from the start. A friendly hey how are you it's been a while we should go out for drinks tonight, quickly followed by another hey how come you don't have a girlfriend yet. The sneak.

(Another thing he will never admit: Hughes had been leading him to the necklace - or maybe it was bracelets, he hoped it hadn't been earrings - section. A nice present, he had said, something sparkly, he had said.

But _he _was the one who made a beeline for the rings.)

He still remembers the conversation. Clear as crystal and ice and sharp winter skies.

(Words don't rot quite as easily.)

It went something like:

Heeeeey, Roy, you didn't tell me you found someone already.

_I didn't._

(pause. then, the mistake.)

(hewasdrunkhewas drunkhewasdrunk .)

_She doesn't know yet._

Oh? (a quirked eyebrow. a curious Hughes is never a good thing.)

Do I know her?

_...no._

Oh, who is it!

_I'm not telling. _(at least he was sober enough to bite his tongue. not like it really mattered, because soon enough - )

Well, which one are you going to get? How about that one? (and he pointed to a huge, gaudy ring smack dab in the middle of the display. the knuckle-sized stone was the color of peaches.)

_You're kidding._

Yeah, it does look pretty expensive -

_It doesn't suit her._

No? (a smirk. a curious Hughes is a dangerous thing.)

Why not?

_It's too... too... _(he failed to find a word that would accurately describe the ostentatious ring)_ It's... it's not _her. _I need something simple. Pretty, but simple, you know? A rock that big would just get in the way -_

Get in the way of what? (the smirk widened to the likeness of a cheshire cat.)

(and you know what they say about cats and curiosity)

_Not telling._

(he clammed up, after that, ignoring Hughes prodding like he had ignored the night's precious Elysia anecdotes.

yet they didn't leave -

or rather, he didn't leave.

he was looking through the rings - dammit why was he looking? - contemplating...)

(then)

How about that one?

(Hughes was pointing to a ring in the corner. he was surprised he hadn't noticed it before, but once he saw, he couldn't take his eyes away. it was perfect. a golden band, no, not quite gold, but rather a metal that was almost the exact same color as her -

three diamonds were embedded in the ring, instead of poking up like awkward mountains. lined up like constellations, they wouldn't snag on blue sleeves or get caught in -

the more he looked at it, the more beautiful it was.)

_Yeah. That's it. It's perfect._

(and Hughes was smiling, _smiling_. not smirking, but smiling.

although there was that look in his eyes - )

(Hughes being Hughes, there was only one thing left to say.)

Well? What are you waiting for?

It took all the cenz in his pocket, all the money in Hughes, and two trips to the bank, but he did it.

He remembers the weight of the box is his pocket as he carried it home. Maybe it was then that he looked to the sky and thought he saw stars falling. He recalls making a wish -

(because isn't that what he is? an idealist? a dreamer? the kind of person that does silly things like wishing on stars?)

So, Hughes had said, what are you waiting for?

He didn't answer.

He didn't know the answer the next day, either.

He remembers waking up, staring at the box on his bedside table, the confusion, then  
remembering.

Shock rolling in like a tidal wave, embarrassment like the undertow, because god he was such an idiot and surely if Hughes didn't know before he knew now and -

He remembers grabbing the box, to throw it against the wall, set it on fire, something, something, make it go away and then he could pretend it never existed because the fact that it existed and he bought it and it was perfect meant that

meant that

He remembers tense knuckles and fingers curling around velvet and

stopping.

Stopping and  
opening the box and  
looking inside.

Because it was perfect. So perfect.

He has a ring in his sock drawer.

(he considered installing a lock for the drawer, but figured that would just be overkill.)

It's stuffed in the back, way way way in the back, squished against the left corner.

The ring is in a box and the box is velvet and the box is wrapped in a silk bag and the silk bag is in a package and the package is tied with string and he hopes no one will ever find it.

(Hughes never mentioned their little shopping trip again, but he's pretty sure that's when the taunts shifted from get a girlfriend to get a wife.)

If anyone asks, he'll say he's waiting.


	3. 33 a walk

**33. a walk**

(Ishval spoilers. slight spoilers for ch. 108, if you squint.)

The road they walk is paved with mud and rock. Years ago, it would've been bone and rotten blood but they are not so eager to delve in vindictive misery as they once were.

The air is heavy; they've walked this road before. They walk in the quietude of two people who know silence can be comfortable, can be sacred, that words don't need to fill the awkward gaps between conversations. Although the steps they take are long and lingering, the wavering promenade of recollection.

They don't say it but - neither wants to bring it up even though they both already know it's what's on the other's mind, the reason why this silence is so heavy - they have walked this road before. Stumbled, actually, arms slung across shoulders, broken soldiers heading to some distant place called home. There was pain and there was the smell of seared flesh and she tries not to think of the feeling of grave-dirt beneath her fingernails and he tries not to think of his hands all-together.

They don't say it, but when he catches her eyes - or when she catches his - the message is mutual. Not now. It is the desert, after all, and the sand in their teeth might as well be grains in an hourglass. But not now, not yet, not when there are things waiting to be rebuilt.

"It feels strange," he says, "To be back here, like this, doesn't it?"

She nods, in agreement and appreciation of the subject change and still a little too lost in thought for words.

"It is different, this time, though."

Yes, different. That it isn't quite the word for it, but it will do for now.

She remembers the look he gave her when he realized she'd kill for him. There was a time she'd die for him, too. Deep inside, she knows she still would, but she won't.

He remembers the blood and the distance and the feeling he got when he realized he'd lose her one day. He needs her in a way he'll never admit because technically - and she has told him this - he can do this without her, but he'll be damned if he ever lets her slip through his fingers again.

"Look, we're almost there."

The sun-bleached tents are stark against the sand dunes, but he isn't talking about the camp.

"We've still got a long way to go, sir."

He laughs at that, mirthless, but not bitter, and she smiles slightly. Their hands brush and for a moment their fingers are intwined, fingernails digging crescent-shaped promises into each other's palms.

When they glances over their shoulders (force of habit - it is _the_ desert) they can't quite see the place where they started, but the horizon doesn't seem so far. The sky is much brighter than it was back then.


End file.
